


Nobody's Girl

by zulu



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: 06-12, F/F, Femslash, for:dghterjudy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-31
Updated: 2007-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-02 00:54:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/pseuds/zulu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tara makes her own choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nobody's Girl

**Author's Note:**

> During the thirty-two days between Wrecked and Dead Things.

Sunrise explodes over the desert, bright and sudden. The sand dunes climbing up from the road, held back by scrub brush, are painted blood-red by the sun. Tara's eyes water, and she looks away. The heat will hit soon enough, and she wants the drive finished before it does. She's driven this way often enough that the mixture of sweaty-sticky-dusty and guilt are familiar, and she pushes them to the back of her mind. It isn't really betrayal and it isn't really cheating. She makes this trip once or twice a month, and assures herself of the same things each time. She tries not to skip visits. The only ones she's missed so far have been due to brain sucking, or to forgetting--being otherwise incapacitated. Tara's hands tighten on the steering wheel. It most certainly isn't cheating anymore. She doesn't have anyone to cheat on.

Mr. Giles gives her the keys and a mild look whenever she asks to borrow his car. The first time, he'd taken off his glasses and cleaned them as an excuse to think, but he never argues. He never asks, "Are you sure this is the right thing to do?" He feels as guilty as she does about these trips. He believes he should be the one to go, that it's his duty somehow. He thinks of it as a chore, a responsibility, so of course it would never work even if he went himself. Mr. Giles is simply glad, in the end, that _someone_ goes. Faith deserves that much, at least.

No one else thinks so. Tara isn't a real Scooby, so maybe she just doesn't understand. Anya hates Faith willingly and indifferently, because Xander does. And Buffy--well, you don't talk about Faith around her. There have been times, when they all sit around the table in the Magic Box, just talking instead of researching, because nothing has tried to kill them recently. Tara dips her head into musty books as if she could dive into the pages. She listens to Willow and Buffy gossiping about how Harmony showed up as a vampire, how Cordy is doing in L.A., Wesley's girly scream. They relive high school, the parts that don't hurt. They never talk of Angel, or Oz (and Tara hasn't forgotten Oz, no matter how much Willow tried to make her forget--)

Tara bites her lip and checks the dashboard. She's going safely two miles above the speed limit, the oil was changed last week, the engine is cool enough, and she is going to pick Faith up from prison. She didn't tell anyone what she planned, because there was no one left in Sunnydale to tell. Silence surrounds the subject and sometimes it's hard to believe that it's Tara who ended up with Faith's contact information. Harder, too, to decide how she came to be writing her phone number at the bottom of a long letter, telling Faith to call if she wanted to. "Angel told Mr. Giles," she wrote, "and he let me know, just in case."

Just in case: because if Buffy dies (she does not want to live) again, and forever (unless Willow thinks she is powerful enough), then it's likely that Mr. Giles will be dead with her, and someone has to tell Faith. This time, Tara thinks, she wants to tell Faith. She doesn't want--what happened before.

And so she wrote that first letter, and followed it with others. The first time she drove this way, she watched the desert pass outside the windows like a half-remembered dream, and it felt right. Faith appeared behind the glass in the visiting booth, trying so hard to be arrogant and untouchable. Tara didn't believe the act, and it's that, more than anything, that kept her coming back. It's the reason she's here now. She sees through Faith's defensiveness and her suspicion. Maybe she's the only one, besides Angel, who can.

 

***

 

Tara coaxes Miss Kitty closer, holding out a finger for her to smell. She bats at Tara's hand, and Tara rubs behind her ears. Tara wonders if having Miss Kitty for a year or more means that she and Willow should be drawing up custody agreements. If Miss Kitty was a familiar, she's sure Willow would want her, claim her. Because she's only a kitten, Tara's left with her, in yet another apartment that doesn't allow pets.

"Your parole hearing is tomorrow," she says into the phone, concentrating on the raspy tongue tickling her palm. She wonders if her voice sounds thick or more stuttery than usual. She's gotten worse since she moved out (left Willow). Phones steal words from her mouth and bring sounds back in a horribly uncomfortable way. Conversations aren't really real when they aren't face to face. She closes her eyes and tries to picture Faith--leaning hipshot against the wall, glaring at her guard, arms crossed, the phone clenched between her ear and shoulder.

"Yeah," Faith says. Just that. She phones, sometimes--she always used to hang up if Willow answered--but it's rare that she has much to say. Tara's not used to propping up a conversation, but with Faith, she thinks the silences are what she calls for.

Tara pauses, then, because she doesn't know how to offer to be there for Faith. Maybe Faith doesn't want her there at all. Despite the calls, the visits, they don't really know each other. (That's a lie, though. Tara knows Faith's mind, and how her soul fits inside her body. But that's a spell-remnant of the body switch. Magic isn't memory. When Tara thinks about it, they've never even met without a barrier between them.) And if Tara doesn't know how to offer, Faith's even less sure about how to ask.

"I'll come down," Tara says. Willow won't know (Willow was never curious about Tara's friends). "Tell them you have a place to stay."

Faith grunts. "Not like they're going to let me go, anyway," she says.

From Willow, that would mean it's time for Tara to say _of course they will_ and _but you've been doing so well, sweetie_. The words catch in her chest, hurting. They're empty phrases, because really, she can't know. And Faith hates reassurance. "Be real," she'd said, more than once. "Plenty of people have broken promises to me, Tar, and I don't want you to be one of them."

So Tara breathes into the phone, digging her fingers deep into Miss Kitty's fur, and wishes she weren't almost crying about Willow (again). This is about Faith. She wishes there was a lot less than a hundred miles of hollow telephone wire between them. She shapes wishes with her lips, and knows better than to say any of them out loud. It's not fair to be wishing for Faith (even if it's not cheating. Not anymore.)

"My time's up," Faith says, but the dead air lingers between them. Goodbye's another word Faith never wants to hear. Tara's tongue feels weighed down by words. She's still thinking of something to say when the dial tone sounds in her ear.

 

***

 

"Nice ride," Faith says.

"It's Mr. Giles' car." Tara opens the trunk for Faith to toss her canvas duffle in.

"I always knew he was cooler than he pretended," Faith says. "Tweed, my ass."

They're both being careful with each other's space. Faith seems pressed in on all sides. Maybe she's still inside the prison's walls. Tara feels wider than the desert, as if her spirit is tugging its way loose from her body. The wind whips sand around them, and Tara thinks again of a dream she's not sure she ever had.

"Actually, he, uh, looks very nice in oxford shirts," she says. He does, and she blushes to think that she noticed.

Faith grins at her--really, truly smiles--and swings into the passenger seat. "Tara, you dog," she laughs. "I never knew."

Tara shakes her head, looking away before she smiles back. "I'm just--" She stops, not sure how to finish the sentence. Something about the way Willow looks at her, as the only, the essential. (But not always as Tara.)

"Hey, you're not _just_ anything," Faith says. "I know." She leans her elbow out the open window and stares out. Tara eases them out of the parking lot and on to the highway. After a moment, Faith says, "Let's take the top down, huh?"

Tara's driven this way before, and she could tell Faith about the grit and the sand and the dust. Instead, she presses the button. The canvas top folds back above them. The wind tugs their hair into stinging veils between them. For once, Tara's not sure she likes how easy it is to hide.

 

***

 

Tara's studio is no smaller than her dorm room was, but she's been spoiled by the openness of Buffy's house, and by the closeness of living with Willow. There, she'd allowed herself the luxury of spreading herself out, of making the house hers. She set out sachets of pot pourri, aura crystals among the knickknacks, and draped her clothes carelessly over hooks in the bathroom, baskets in the basement. She thrilled at each bit of evidence that she lived there, because she chose to.

When Faith walks two steps in her door, lets her duffle slide to the floor, and says, "Nice place," all Tara can see are the ways it isn't home.

Her heart thuds painfully in her throat. She's unpacked because she can't live as if there's a chance Willow will change. She keeps the boxes because she can't live as if there isn't hope. "It's, it isn't, not really."

Faith glances at her over her shoulder. "I wasn't going to say it if you didn't." She kicks off her boots and sits on the bed. Miss Kitty uncurls and picks her way across the comforter, her tail poker-straight, and sniffs delicately at Faith's hip. Faith scoops her up and cuddles her.

"I, um." Tara blinks and looks down. Miss Kitty usually scrambles away from strangers trying to hold her. "Do you want--"

She's thinking of offering tea, or a shower, or simply, time. Faith looks like she needs it. Tiredness shows around her eyes and she's thinner than she should be. She burrows her face into Miss Kitty's ruff, as if they both need the contact. She doesn't take up as much space as Tara expected. In this room, maybe they're both holding themselves back.

"Do you want to go out?" Tara asks, suddenly.

Faith laughs, and Miss Kitty lunges away from her like she was spring-loaded. "They don't know you at all, do they?"

Tara understands exactly who Faith means by 'they'. Letters and phone calls and visits, and Faith's never been stupid. Tara shrugs, and smiles. "I want to do something fun."

It's really, truly not cheating. Not anymore.

 

***

 

"You're like a, a tapeworm," Tara says, making a tower out of empty shot glasses.

"You're comparing me to an intestinal parasite?" Faith doesn't seem drunk at all. She probably isn't. Tara spends a moment trying to figure out if that's unfair.

"No. Yes." She frowns in concentration and adds a fourth shot glass to her creation. "They all--" (this is a secret code; she and Faith, between them, wordlessly, have decided not to say Willow's name--) "think you're evil."

Faith grimaces and takes a swallow of her rum and coke.

"But," Tara says carefully, "you're not. You're, you're unexpectedly hermaphroditic."

Coke spurts out of Faith's mouth, and she chokes, "What?"

"Both evil and good, all at once," Tara says. It might have sounded better in her head. "Hermes and Aphrodite," she tries to explain. "Although Hermes was really only a trickster god, like Coyote."

Faith wipes a hand across her mouth and laughs. "I never pictured you drunk, Tar." She grins and shakes her head. "But I should have. I really should have."

Tara reaches for the bottle a nice bar tender placed in front of them. Faith grabs her hand and pulls her back. "Bad idea."

"But it's _my_ idea." (She needs to be allowed to make mistakes. No one let Faith make mistakes, and look where she ended up. That's why Tara left Willow; because Willow must be allowed to mess up, but Tara can't watch it happen. Love didn't make her strong enough to stay.)

Faith watches her, sadly. "That matters?"

"Yes," Tara says. "It's all that does."

 

***

 

Faith carries her home.

Tara wants to worry about how silly she looks, huge and awkward in Faith's slayer-strong arms. But even the latest late-night Bronzers have already left, and for once she doesn't need to worry about vampires on her way home. She lets herself drift, to feel differences. Willow's hands were always cold, thrilling and surprising when she cupped Tara's breasts beneath the covers. Faith's body heats her straight through, like a windless summer day.

She might have fallen asleep, somewhere between the Bronze and her apartment. The bed's warmth beneath her is almost a shock. She opens her eyes and sees Faith's face above her, tender and open. Tara cups her cheek with one hand. It isn't hard at all to pull her down and kiss her, to find the soft taste of her tongue.

Tara sits up, her body warm and loose with alcohol. She slips her shirt over her head. "The floor's cold," she says.

Faith sits beside her on the bed. "Still a bad idea, Tar," she says. "Don't you think, out of everyone, that I'd know?"

"I'm a tapeworm too," Tara tells her. When she kisses Faith again, she tastes the sweetness of cola, the fire of the rum. Faith's hands rest on her skin, just above her waistband. Her fingers flex, brushing across Tara's stomach, and Tara moans into her mouth. This is wonderfully new, the way Faith kisses, with teeth and tongue.

Tara has the memory of all her nights with Willow. She remembers how to touch, and how it feels to be touched. Faith's body is tauter, harder, her breasts more generous, her energy darker. (Different is what she needs. Different is beautiful, ecstatic.)

Faith murmurs into her skin, words and phrases and questions.

"Yes," Tara says, and, "please."

Her mouth touches Tara, licks and sucks and brings Tara to orgasm, and her fingers follow after, brightening her body like lightning. Tara kisses her back, tastes her, and Faith shudders in her arms.

Afterwards, she sleeps, and dreams of Willow. (Different doesn't mean better.)

 

***

 

"Do you still love her?"

"Yes." Tara doesn't try to lie, or evade. Faith knows how she feels. She closes her book. She wasn't reading. It's a volume of her mother's. Her father burned everything of hers after she died, and the few things Tara saved still seemed to hold the memory of her touch. Tara traces the same paths, lightly, and feels the echo of her mother's hand. It isn't magic (not the way Willow thinks of it: as a tool, a means to an end, a power). It's memory instead.

"Listen. I can't stay here forever." Faith's standing at the window, hands linked loosely in front of her, staring out.

"You can," Tara says. (It won't be enough.)

Faith waves a hand at the window. "Jesus, you don't think I got that enough in counseling?" she asks. "Bury the hatchet, right? Well, Buffy's dug up every damn hatchet I tried to get rid of."

Faith turns from the window, her face in shadow from the morning sun. Like the memory of a dream, Tara sees, for an instant, her shirt dripping red with blood. Her heart constricts. Willow was waiting for her after class this morning. She didn't stay. It hurt to see her, deeply and so suddenly that Tara wasn't even sure it was her own pain she was feeling.

"People need you here," she says, though it might be the wrong thing to say. Faith hasn't gone slaying yet. It's been days. Each night, they make love, and Tara's not sure how or if she wants it to end.

"There are other Hellmouths," Faith says. "So why should I stay here?" She steps over to Tara. She takes her face in her hands and kisses her. Tara opens her mouth and lets it happen, hot and wet but still not familiar. There's so much she could learn about Faith; so much she could love. But after a moment, Faith pulls back.

"Yeah," Faith says, flat and empty. (She's already leaving. It's already too late.) "Why should I stay?"

 

***

 

Buffy's house is still home. Tara lets herself in with the key she never could have left behind. She stops in front of the door to Willow's room--their room. (Faith's duffle was gone from her floor this morning. She didn't leave a note.)

Tara closes her eyes. The first night, after the Bronze, Faith lay beside her, her hands hovering inches away from her skin. Tara could feel the heat of her, like the desert sun, hot as blood. She wanted Faith, so badly, and she wanted to make every mistake she never had a chance for before. ("Your choice," Faith whispered, breathing close to Tara's ear. "Yours.")

(Yours, Tara thinks. I am. Yours.)

Willow's there. There's only the door between them.

Tara wipes her tears away, and walks in.


End file.
